Consequences
by Nekola
Summary: This is my very first attempt at fanfiction, only because I love, love, LOVE DA:O. Left wide open for future chapters if this first is well received. Rated M because let's face it, between the two wardens, things MUST be smutty.
1. Chapter 1

Lucy paced her room in agitation, her steps were jerky, the frown clouding her face was menacing and she was praying to the Maker that she did not believe in to save her mind from its growing insanity. With thoughts of the coming war, of victorious strategies during past battles, of the very real moment when she would take the Arch demon's life, passing fleetingly through her mind, she could not shake the imagined images of what was occurring just down the hall.

Morrigan was delectable; her bountiful curves and dangerous disposition were a sinful temptation for any man. The thought of Alistair's hands on said curves, of Morrigan's sharp tongue doing something other than terrorizing him, of them together in the heat of this already hot night...

"Maker damnit!" She growled, halting her pacing and twisting her hands together.

Realizing she was doing what most would describe as "wringing her hands", an altogether pathetic activity, she shook them out, holding them out before her. They were shaking.

"Stop!" She pleaded pathetically at them and Rough raised his head with an inquiring whine.

"Nothing. Sorry." The Mabari lowered his chin to his paws once more but kept one eye on her.

This choice, as with every other choice since the day Duncan came into her life, had been hers. For the first time she felt the crushing weight of the responsibility she had had thrust onto her shoulders and the sting of resentment for all of those that had placed her in positions she did not wish to be in. Why had they all relied on her so heavily? And in situations where she was obviously not qualified or worthy to make defining choices; the Templars or the Magi? Werewolves or Dalish? Harrowmont or Bhelen?

Death or the loss of Alistair?

Her fists clenched violently. Alistair had been lost to her before this night, his noble mind already conforming to the rights and responsibilities lain on a king. Talk of the need for a legitimate heir had been his main point, but knowing him as she did, she had caught the caustic truth. Ferelden would never accept an elven consort let alone an elven queen. Lucy had known, deep down, that her race would eventually become an unsolvable issue, yet she had denied it until that moment. His pleading eyes had done nothing to soothe her beaten heart. She had given him her understanding and then left him alone in the courtyard of Eamon's estate.

Catching her reflection in the mirror above the mantle, she turned her head to reveal her small, pointed ears. Tentatively raising her hands, she covered her ears and examined her face; she could almost believe she was human. If she were human, such a fundamental divide would not exist, would not be an issue. With a disgusted snort, she turned from the mirror, trying to forget the feeling of regretting who she was.

Without skipping a beat, for fear that her mind would return to unwanted thoughts, she thought about her life after the dragon was slain, what lay in store for her on the slim chance that she would survive. Alistair would not, under any circumstance, deliver the killing blow; she had already devised a plan to ensure the Arch demon would die by her hand. She had not risked Ferelden as a whole to have their rightful king die before he could show them his ability to rule.

Of Alistair's abilities, she had no doubt. He was kind, compassionate, and beneath his silly outward persona he was intensely intelligent. Above all else had a simple love for the land he had been born into that she had yet to witness in any other. It was that which would catapult him into the highest realms of great kings. It would take some time, but he would learn and fulfill his duties and rebuild Ferelden.

In her mind, Alistair would be taken care of; his need for her was no more. Which still left the question of her purpose once the Blight was destroyed, once the Arch demon lay at her feet. They were calling her the Hero of Ferelden, as if she was some god like, mythical being. Lucy shook her head. If she was the Hero of Ferelden now, what would she be after tomorrow?

Sure, they would venerate her in the coming months, possibly name a building or two for her, but after such a catastrophic tragedy, most people would only want to forget and move on with their lives. In the same vein, she would be forgotten, being such a potent reminder of the darkest days, with nothing to do but idly twiddle her thumbs. Apparently she had not thought through her most recent choice well enough. It would, perhaps, be better if she died a legend, at the peak of her short life.

"Lucy?"

Wynne's sweetly aged voice jolted her from her morbid thoughts and she turned to find the older mage hovering at her door.

Summoning a smile, she beckoned Wynne forward, "Please, come in."

They sat side by side on the couch before the fire and Wynne caught and held her gaze, stating bluntly, "Nothing stays secret among us for long. Leiliana walked in on Morrigan and Alistair in the throes of a very awkward carnal entanglement – her words. Now, I realize that Morrigan is a very beautiful young lady, but I also know without a doubt that our young bastard would not, under normal circumstances, touch her with a ten foot pole. _What_ is going on?"

Lucy wearily rubbed her face, shaking her head as she did so, "A ritual. So Morrigan called it. There is a chance that if they can conceive a child this night, both Alistair and I will be spared when the Arch demon is slain, that it will retreat through the child instead of one of us."

"Oh dear. You cannot really think that-" "I would do, and think, anything that may keep Alistair alive. Do not question my motives on this."

Wynne had the sense to look away from Lucy's severe glare and apologize, "I am sorry, Warden. I only fear the toll this will take on your relationship with Alistair."

Lucy looked into the fire and replied evenly, "Alistair and I have parted, in that sense. With what is to come in the next months, it is not feasible for us to remain together."

There was a long silence after her words, until she felt a staff callused hand curve about her chin and Wynne turned her face towards her, "My sweet child, talk to me. There is more to this than you let on."

The kindness, the unconditional understanding in the woman's eyes brought a lump to Lucy's throat but she violently swallowed it; she did not cry, it was more pathetic than the wringing of hands.

"I've made a mistake. In hindsight and contemplation of the future, I should be the one to cleanse the Arch demon's essence. This is my battle, I should perish, and happily so, along with my adversary. After I fulfill my duty, what will be left for me? What is my purpose after the Blight is put to rest?"

"You will have much purpose, Warden. You are the most heralded citizen in all Ferelden, Alistair will surely require your-"

"I will not be able to hold his hand forever, Wynne! How can he learn to lead if he still continually looks to me? No, there is no place for me in royal politics or the running of Ferelden. I am strictly crisis management."

This elicited a small snort of humour from Wynne and Lucy gave a short bark of sardonic laughter, "I don't want to fade into obscurity, Wynne. And I don't believe that assisting in rebuilding the Circle, or running a patrol around Ferelden dealing with petty crimes, or anything other than this will be enough for me. This is what I am, who I am. Once the Blight is finished, as should I."

Wynne's face had grown grave through her speech and she asked softly, "What are you suggesting?"

Lucy released a huff of amusement, "Is it so terrible to _want_ to die?"

She was shocked to see glistening moisture fill the senior mage's eyes and she opened her mouth to apologize, halted only by Wynne rising abruptly.

Without looking at her again, Wynne crossed to the door saying, "I wish you luck in tomorrow's final stand, Warden."

A moment later Lucy was alone once again with the door clicking softly shut. Great, complete alienation of one of the few people she held in the highest esteem. With nothing left to do, the late hours slowly waning into the early, Lucy stripped down, left the fire and one candle burning to guard against the shadows, and crawled between silk sheets.

She was startled from her doze uncounted minutes later when a large body lifted the covers and slipped beneath, dragging her into its familiar arms. The candle had gone out and the fire died down, but Lucy only had to sniff once to know it was he. Beneath the potent stench of lye soap – he must have scrubbed himself before coming to her – was his scent, the musk of a constantly active male combined with something sweeter, something potently alluring to her senses.

Lucy turned into Alistair's chest, burying her face in the solid muscle, the hairless flesh for he was as naked as she. Their legs tangled and he pressed his cheek to her forehead, holding her tight. He didn't need words to convey his wordless plea and she could not find it within herself to deny him. Rolling to her back, guiding him after her, their mouths fused and her thighs spread wide in ancient welcome.

The dawn began to break as Lucy released a muted sob, commingling with Alistair's drawn out groan. They held each other, cherished each other for precious moments before duty adamantly displaced love. Calling a servant to fetch his armour, they strapped each other into the dragonbone fortresses that would hopefully keep them alive long enough to see their quest to the end. Once weapons were sharpened, straps checked and rechecked, and mental fortitude established by long, shared looks, they opened the bedroom door and stepped out together to face the war.


	2. The End

Author's Note (I guess): This definitely stems away from what ACTUALLY happens in the game, however, this is the way my imagination played it out. If you hate it, do let me know! And I didn't say this in the first chapter, but I guess I should have, I don't own or take credit for any Dragon Age content, and thank BioWare VERY much for providing so much lush groundwork for my imagination.

Alistair fell to a knee, barely keeping the dragon's vicious hind foot from crushing flat with only his shield braced on his shoulders. With muscles shuddering in exhaustion, he shoved the impossible weight from his shoulders and scrambled backwards. Waves of coolness washed over him, rejuvenating minute amounts of his energy; he was happy that Wynne had not yet fallen. The stones beneath his feet were slick with the blood of those that had already been dispensed by the Arch demon.

They had fought their way through wave after deadly wave of darkspawn, hunting down and killing the Arch demon's generals with tidy satisfaction. By the time they had reached the top of the fort, they were ragged and exhausted and only just beginning the true battle as they would soon discover. At first he had tried to keep sight of Lucy at all times, until it was blatant he would have to use his complete focus just to survive. He had faith in her abilities and fortitude, however, as the dragon was either frozen for precious, vital seconds or pulsing with painful electrocution at regular intervals.

The dragon had been distracted by a suicidal band of dwarves, rushing its front legs and hacking away savagely. With the moment's respite, Alistair could finally see the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. The massive appendages were stutter stepping, clumsy and slow where they were once too fast and too nimble. Its vicious tail had been rendered useless and it tripped and stumbled over it. Swinging low, the scaled head was snapping at the dwarves with predictable regularity and Alistair saw his chance. Pulling the strength from his toes, he prepared to propel himself onto that deadly head for the fatal blow.

Taking his first step was easy but he was surprised to find his second impeded by unseen means; he looked down to see it frozen from its forward motion. Golden light surrounded him, halted him, baffled him until she sprinted past him, her bloody dagger and sword shining gaily in the light of the fires, her body transparent as she drifted in and out of the Fade, only half existing in this world. With an incomprehensible roar, he cleansed her confining magic and barrelled after her, desperate that she would not be the one to kill the dragon. It was apparent he was too late as she leapt to its leg, nimbly crawling up its shoulder with her blades plunging steadily through bloodied scales.

He caught up in time to slice at the maw that had swung around to detain Lucy, halt her from her upward quest. The blade caught and lodged in the dragon's lower jaw and he was dragged upwards, his feet leaving the earth, by its rearing neck. His ears were ringing from its pained and frustrated roar. Realizing his advantage over Lucy, now doggedly climbing the long neck, he swung his body until he could gain a foot hold between two of the razor edged teeth. Before said teeth could snap shut, he hauled himself upon the snout, holding on for dear life as the beast shook its head in agitation.

His mandatory pause allowed Lucy to scramble faster, popping up behind the fearsome horns, her blades still locked in her hands. She had beaten him in their race to death.

"No!" He roared as she began hacking away at the protective scales behind its skull.

Thrashing more violently now, Alistair hadn't a hope of climbing the short distance to replace the small elf. Lucy met his gaze as she viciously pulled back a bloody scale and bellowed, "For Ferelden!"

He watched as she worked another free and cried, "For the Grey Wardens!"

Blood and scraps of sinewy muscle covered her entire body and she hauled herself to her feet, bracing them for balance to hold her weapons high, blades protruding down. Gathering her depleted mana, she met his gaze with a piercing one of her own and sobbed, "For you, my love."

Alistair felt the massive release of arcane energy, and watched it travel down her blades just before she plunged both into the vulnerable, exposed flesh. The dragon's head exploded in a colourful rain of blood and brain matter and Alistair was blasted backwards, saved only by landing in a pile of dead darkspawn. Dazed but not knocked out, he was aware of Wynne kneeling by his side, her voice muffled, her concern plain on her face. Beyond her he watched the massive body fall to the ground, rattling the stones of the old fort. He grabbed hold of Wynne and hauled himself to his feet, stumbled towards the fallen Arch demon, desperately scanning the scene.

He spotted her, still clutching the blades, half trapped beneath the massive neck. With a choked sob he staggered forward, only to be blown back again by the golden light that escaped the scaled body to coalesce around her form. It pulsed once, like the long drawn sigh of a dying heart, before exploding in blinding light, dissipating into nothingness a moment later.

Leaving behind the small, lifeless body of the Grey Warden. Stunned silence was soon banned by astonished, gleeful cheering from the warriors left standing. His contribution was a strangled sob as he finally made it to her side. Using both feet to shift the dead neck from atop her, he tugged her into his arms, his ear at her chest, desperately listening for a heartbeat. He heard the cheering die down as realization washed over the tower. There was silence without and within her body; she hung limply in his arms.

"Let me through! Release her, Alistair! "

Lucy was ripped from his arms and lain out on the bloodied ground as Wynne frantically checked her for signs of life. He lunged forward, potent desperation coursing through his veins, if he could hold her, breathe into her, give her the Maker damned life force running through him...

Zevran appeared in his line of sight, effectively blocking out Wynne and Leiliana kneeling by her side, his fore arm braced against his chest. Alistair felt like laughing if the wiry elf thought he could hold him back. Hands closed about his upper arms – he didn't need to look to know Oghren and Sten – and he knew the elf's confidence stemmed from the assistance. Realizing struggling was futile; he sagged between his comrades, relatively shielded from the anxious crowd gathering around them.

The growing pandemonium was a distant, muffled buzz as Alistair let his gaze roam over the familiar faces of their party, registering with painful clarity their grief riven expressions. Leiliana was sobbing freely, while Wynne sat back with silent tears running the rivulets of the lines in her face. The men, even Sten who Alistair was sure held no emotion at all, were crestfallen, with heads bowed, their faces downcast and agonized. Rough lay beside her body, whining and nudging her limp hand with his nose before releasing a piercing, mournful howl. The evidence was blatant, the truth was proven, Morrigan's planned had not succeeded and Alistair felt his body fail him.

"Lucy." He gasped before falling into the beckoning, all too welcoming blackness of oblivion.


	3. Fading Death

Death. The afterlife. The End. Heaven or hell. Assuming a thousand names, it was uniformly that mysterious, inevitable condition that drove mortals to all levels of insanity in the attempt to avoid it, to stave it off as long as possible. Even with all of its clandestine, menacing glory, Lucy had never feared it. In most moments of her short life she had embraced it, welcomed it, knowing that it could find her at any moment, under any sword or spell. Her philosophy on the afterlife had always been optimistic, that it held a divine paradise for those who had lived for the good. She had never dreamed she could be so wrong.

It was abominably peculiar that after all her assured, arrogant skepticism, the Chantry was correct in their predictions of the post life. Souls, upon leaving their meaty vessels, passed through the Fade for a bare moment and then dissipated, assumingly moving onto whatever lay after the Fade. Lucy was sure of this because she had followed one; it had slipped through the Veil, gave her a confused look and faded away. Poof, just like that.

Lost souls, forgotten souls, those that turned from the Maker, were damned to wander the Fade for eternity; Lucy had never thought to count herself as one of them. However, as she surveyed the bland, hazy extent of the spirit world, it was her reality.

While she had not been the most astute worshiper of the Maker, she did not feel that she had abandoned him completely. She had, after all, rescued and given her life for his children; that sort of sacrifice had to count for something.

Perhaps it was the manner in which she did it.

She had not died at peace; her head and her heart had been rife with maddening regrets and heart shattering sorrow. Sure, she had been selfless for the entire duration of quelling the Blight, but at that last moment, as the neck of the dragon crushed her exhausted body and she had sensed the Essence homing in on her, she had been, well, terrified. So terrified that she had forced herself into the safe blackness of unconsciousness; not brave enough to face the final blow of the Arch demon. In the end, she did not want it; with every iota of her soul she had wanted to live.

Upon waking, she had looked around the Fade in dismay. With nothing but her armour on her body, her blades in her hands and the full extent of her magical powers intact, she got to her feet and set out to remedy the blatantly obvious mistake. Two weeks later she was still confined within the dream world, still searching for an answer, still half hoping she would be rewarded a paradise of her own. A paradise where she could wait for him...

The ritual the three of them had endured had been for naught; either no child had been conceived or Morrigan had perished during their push through Denerim. Both thoughts yanked painfully at her heart. However, whichever was the truth was moot; she had taken the final blow as planned and held no regrets as it had saved him. Aside from saving Ferelden, Alistair's survival had been the driving force in her life and her goal had been accomplished. Yet, if only-

Lucy was jolted from her paltry regret by a demon entering the clearing she had taken as a base. A strong rage demon, it roared savagely at her, "Menacing creature! I will be done with you! Possess you!"

With a resigned sigh, Lucy pulled her blades from their sheaths, "Alright, try me."

The fiery being lunged at her; with a casual side step and two lightning quick slices of her blades, she neatly dispatched the demon to its version of the afterlife. With a pitiful, growling gurgle, it sank into the ground, leaving behind nothing but a dark pool of muck. Lucy wiped her blades on some fluffy under brush and resheathed them before giving vent to a muted, frustrated scream.

She was dead! She had done her duty, ran the gauntlet of life and willingly gave up her time on earth to save it. How could she be banished to the Fade, set to battle demons for the duration of eternity? What little faith she had had in a greater power had been completely stripped from her being. There was no escape after death.

Were blacksmiths forced to forge blades during death? Maids forced to scrub floors until the end of existence? Kings forced to dictate over invisible subjects past the precincts of forever? The fact that she had yet to encounter any being such as herself throughout her travels in the Fade told her no; none of these people were forced into their occupations after death.

So why her?

Since she had arrived, demons had been seeking her out, hunting her down in an almost fanatic insanity, trying their hand at destroying her. Even Pride demons, those cunning intellectuals that were by far the most dangerous, attacked her mindlessly; her immediate demise their only goal. Yet she was already dead!

Perhaps the worst part was that they could not bring her down, even in numbers far exceeding her own. It was almost automatic, instinctual, her movements through the melee so quick and smooth she was rarely scored by demonic weapons. It was too easy. In the two weeks she had inhabited the Fade, she was particular in keeping track of time, she had felled hundreds of demons. _Hundreds_. She hadn't even achieved such numbers in life.

Lucy had contemplated letting the demons rip her to pieces, allowing them to tear her spirit apart, perhaps effectively finally finding the blissful release that other spirits must feel. Yet every time they attacked she was driven to fight back; it was a complete violation of her nature to simply give up. Alistair's idiotic, grinning face, imploring her to man up and fight, flashing across her consciousness was not helpful in assisting her suicide. It seemed he was determined to see her survive even death.

Oh, did it hurt to think of that infernal human. The loss of him was worse than the thought of being sentenced to battling demons for the rest of her afterlife. Every iota of her being yearned for him. In the boredom of wandering the Fade, she craved his often inane chatter, his vapid comments that never failed to bring genuine laughter from her belly. She missed the always surprising revelation of his true intellect and bottomless wealth of emotion when they had spent late nights in camp keeping vigilant watch by the fire. When she curled up beneath a scrub bush to rest her tired body, she longed for his large body wrapped around her, for his steady breathing and strong heartbeat at her back, for the moment when he would gently wake her and roll between her thighs...

Lucy kicked a large boulder. It wasn't fair.

What was the purpose of emotion in death? Emotion was an odious condition existing simply to drive one into action. As far as she knew, her jealousy of the women with blood pumping through their hearts, warming their skin and animating their limbs, was only an instrument set to drive her insane. The thought of such a woman eventually warming Alistair's bed every night...

Lucy looked around her clearing, searching vainly for some sort of distraction, something to clear her mind of twisted thoughts. Of course, there was nothing but scraggly bushes, cliffs that fell to nowhere, and randomly undulating ground. Maybe she could convince a Desire demon to create a world for her, if she could talk the thing into halting its suicide attack on her.

"Yoo hoo!" She called; her voice hollow and echoing throughout the Fade.

More often than not, her call would bring the demons running. She simply had to wait patiently and they would show themselves, providing her with proactive satisfaction. It only took a few moments for her call to be answered.

True to form, they erupted from the ground around her, snarling in agitation, yet as she unsheathed her blades, both of them slathering for blood, something felt not quite right. It only took a moment to realize and she let loose a string of profanities that would turn Alistair pink. The force around her, closing on her, was larger than any that had come at her before, their numbers uncountable. Yet that was not the worst of her worries; every single massive body was that of a Pride demon. The only demons that had managed to organize before had been of the Sloth variety, relatively weak. An army of Pride demons was an entirely different game.

With a frightened yelp, she ducked and spun through the forest of enraged bodies, their growled words melding into an incomprehensible thunder. Claws sliced through her flesh, and spells cracked against her Arcane shield, bruising her body. She danced through their numbers, viciously killing multitudes as she did, but for every one she cut down, two more closed around her.

"Maker damn you!" She roared as they began to suppress her, capitalizing on the sheer weight in their numbers to close around her.

As her blades were constricted, as her mana drained down to dangerous levels, her heart eased and she let her eyes close in relief; finally, _finally_ the end was near. Just before she lowered her shield, the only thing now keeping her spirit, in a sense, alive, she felt the distinct sensation of a thinning of the Veil. Her eyelids snapped open in time to see the Pride demons being blasted away into the far reaches of the Fade, their devastated howls echoing ominously. Confusion swept through her; _nothing_ should have that amount of power. The feeling of being lifted, of healing, benevolent energy wrapping around her, had her head snapping towards the source; which, with her luck being as it was, had no visible form.

"It is not yet your time, Warden. Tell Wynne I send my regards." Her ears caught the breathy but kind words just before she was shunted through the Veil.


	4. Morrigan's Contrition

This one is quite a bit longer, but I'm not sure how much I like it. I don't know if I captured Morrigan's delightful bitchiness enough. Let me know?

* * *

Morrigan sat before the fire, her eyes narrowing at the reflection in her ornate hand mirror; the bruises on her neck and eye from that blasted fool were only just beginning to fade. Wynne had done what she could, ensuring there was no lasting damage, but informed her the bruises would have to heal on their own. She feared the crippling blow to her confidence in her power was going to take much longer. To be held at the mercy of a man, especially a man such as he, was a wakeup call she would have preferred not to receive.

The memory of Alistair storming her room the night after the Arch demon had fallen, in all his bereaved, righteous fury, made her shudder. The stricken grief on his face, with the power of a rage that clearly thirsted for her blood coursing through his veins, had given her pause. An ill fated pause it proved to be as it gave him time enough to cross the room and backhand her to her floor. Dazed but lucid, she had ignored his command to stay down and laboriously rose to her feet. Another mistake as his great paw had wrapped around her throat and lifted her feet clear of the ground. Her brain had been so frazzled she could not grasp the tantalizing ends of a spell to blast him away from her.

His eyes had narrowed into murderous slits as he squeezed his fist and choked out, "Selfish, murderous bitch! You _promised_ your Maker forsaken ritual would work, that we would _both_ survive, and yet she is cold as the stone she lies upon. She was your _friend_, you fucking harpy. She trusted you and you ultimately betrayed her."

As hazy black spots danced over her vision, a gasping gargle had been her only reply. Blasted bastard.

Her survival had been secured only by the commanding bark of the Arl of Redcliffe, arriving just before she lost consciousness. Alistair had thrown her violently against the wall and she had wisely stayed a crumpled heap on the floor. The Arl had bodily removed the King and she was left alone. The desperation, the confounding loss he had been experiencing, blatant in his eyes, still made her squirm.

Reluctantly, Morrigan let her eyes stray to the camp bed against the wall of her mother's hut, the prone figure atop it making her irritatingly guilty. Wynne was at the bedside, bathing the Warden's still face, humming softly to herself. The ritual had worked; even now she could feel the Essence slumbering deep in her still flat belly, barely the size of the tip of her pinky finger. Even had she not been aware of the Essence within, Wynne had unhelpfully glared at her and accused her of the pregnancy after the others had dispersed from the hut. She had only coolly returned the old woman's betrayed gaze and shrugged one shoulder.

While she had been entirely confident of the Essence taking up residence in the tainted child growing within her, she had not foreseen the force brushing so close with the Grey Warden. She had been over it countless times in her mind, turning the situation over, trying to determine what had caused such a tragic consequence. The most rational explanation she could fathom was the Essence had searched first for a gateway into life or into the Fade, and as Lucy had no doubt been riding the Veil, partially occupying both worlds, the temptation as a means to an end must have been irresistible. The Essence had convened onto the elf's small being for a short moment before funnelling into the minute husk of the barely conceived child. And yet the Warden lived.

Just hours after her confrontation with Alistair, she had run from Redcliffe, forsaking her promise to herself that she would stay and honour the Warden's death properly. Flemeth's hut was her destination, a safe haven for just a few days before removing from Ferelden permanently. On the third day, her blissful solitude was abruptly brought to an end by her door being flung violently wide.

Aghast, she had watched the mismatched group of warriors she had spent the last year detesting, file into the small hut, a conspicuously small body bag slung across Sten's shoulders. The sharp protest on the tip of her tongue had been replaced by an incredulous inquiry, "That cannot be what I think it is."

Her words had been met by five vicious glares and disgruntled growl. After that she had been studiously ignored as the fire was built up and the bag was reverently laid on her bed, unzipped and disposed of to reveal the deathly pale Warden. With quiet words to the dead Warden, all but Wynne departed that same afternoon, leaving Morrigan with a very real and cumbersome problem on her hands.

"She lives, but barely. Her heart beats, though so soft and slow as to be barely discernable, no thanks to the wickedness growing within you." Wynne had snapped at her inquiry.

With a disgusted huff, Morrigan had placed her ear directly between the elf's breasts to listen; a full minute passed before she sensed the sluggish flow of blood and the weak, muted thud of a heart. She had scrambled backwards, away from the low bed, viewing the Warden in a whole new light.

No well worn soul, one that had a veritable wealth of experience in the mortal world like Lucy's, could survive such a brush with the Essence of so great a creature. Yet there was living proof. The notion that her despicable guilt over Lucy, the one friend she had acquired in her entire life, could be remedied, forced her to remain at the hut, assisting Wynne in the care of the Warden.

Morrigan set the mirror aside, moving to stand over the two mages, staring down at the inconceivable miracle before her. Without the ability to administer any type of nutrient to her, the Warden was beginning to waste away, despite Wynne's talents. The bones of her face, already prominent when she was full of life, were taking on a skeletal look; her body was very likely feasting on itself to remain alive. They had to find away to reanimate her, and soon.

She had been toying with an explanation for Lucy's survival for a few days, finally focusing on and monitoring the minute irritations of the Fade brushing her mind far too frequently since the Arch demon's death. All mages - all diligent mages, that is - always kept a proverbial ear on the Veil, monitoring the proximity of demons and danger. Since the victory at Fort Drakon, the Fade had been in violent upheaval, the demon's unrest ruffling the thin layer of the Veil.

Upon further contemplation, Morrigan had found that their focus was not on the life outside the Fade, but on something within their ranks, something that was causing them acute distress. As far as she was concerned, and she would admit this to no being, living or dead, Lucy Surana was the most powerful entity in both worlds. She would be the only being capable of setting so many demons aflutter.

"She is in the Fade." Morrigan announced abruptly.

The old mage turned slowly, her eyes sparking, not with anger, but excitement, "You feel it too, do you? I was not sure an apostate would keep such an astute eye on the Fade."

Morrigan scowled and snapped, "Do not doubt me, old woman. I do feel it and I believe I know a way to locate her, possibly bring her back to this mortal body."

The raised white brow was skeptical but Wynne replied, "Enlighten me."

"There are nuances in the disturbances of the Veil. Sometimes the upheaval is weak enough that I would miss it if I were not focusing, other times the sensation is so great I feel whatever is on the other side could very well breakthrough into this world. If my assumption is correct, intensity will equal proximity. The Warden moves through the Fade, I assume slaughtering demons as she goes, and the closer she is to us, the more intense the disturbance."

The old mages eyes had widened to a magnitudinous degree and she whispered, "You are, indeed, correct. How did I miss this? Oh, sweet child, forgive me. We must send to the Circle immediately."

"There is no time for that, you know as well as I do that her body has only days left. Two or three at the most. As soon as she is close enough, we must breach the Veil."

"Blood magic! I will not stand for such a thing, and neither would Lucy. I am sure she would rather die than resort to such means. The very gall of you-"

"Would you please shut up, you righteous old loon!" Morrigan's patience snapped and she continued angrily, "I do not have the knowledge, nor the skill to employ such an act, mores the pity. Forgive her, but Lucy came to me about the _benevolent_ presence you claim protects you. If such a thing exists, I-"

The sudden thunder in her ears, the absolute quaking of the Veil caused her to meet the old mages astonished eyes.

"Now! Wynne, you must do it now! Call the demon forth!" Morrigan yanked the older woman to her feet, planting her hands on the bony old shoulders to funnel her own mana into the powerful spell already gaining force in Wynne's mind.

Intense moments passed, both mages breaking into strenuous sweat, forcing every last fraction of their willpower into bringing the spell into fruition. With one final push, Morrigan felt it explode from the elder mage, incandescent blue fire dissipating as fast as it had appeared. The Veil abruptly went quiet and Morrigan warily met Wynne's weary eyes. And then the room exploded in a catastrophic cacophony of spells.

Morrigan was blown backwards, her momentum slowed by an unlucky armchair, and she scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to gather an ounce of mana to defend against whatever had come through the Veil. Before her, Lucy stood battle ready, indecently naked, her fists clenched around invisible weapons, her grey eyes wild but clear of possession.

The wild spells, thankfully directed at no one in particular, were hastily cancelled as her gaze darted from Morrigan, to Wynne, who was slowly gaining her feet, and back again. Her tense body relaxed and she casually raised one fisted hand, pointed a finger at the wall that was on fire and blasted it with snow and ice, effectively dousing the flames. Once this action was completed, the mighty Grey Warden promptly fell to the ground in a dead faint.

Morrigan almost collided with Wynne getting to Lucy's side, both of them hindering the other as they checked for vital signs of life.

"Blessed Maker." Wynne gasped, her gnarled fingers at the pulse in Lucy's neck.

Morrigan felt the same steady tattoo of a too strong heart beat through her hand at the elf's wrist.

The soft, even huff of her breath was the sound of a deep sleeper. Morrigan sat, clutching the callused hand in her lap, unbelieving that the beating heart would continue. Minutes or hours could have passed, Morrigan would never know, before Wynne rose, finally responding to the desperate whining and barking audible through the thin door.

Mechanically moving out of the way as the hound barrelled past her, Morrigan watched as Rough's slobbering tongue and bunting nose breathed life into Lucy. She groaned softly, laboriously dragged her arms beneath her chest to push herself upright. Blinking owlishly, she leaned back against the bed, reaching up and behind to drag a blanket over her naked limbs. Rough hunkered down submissively in front of her, releasing an ecstatic whine as her hand fondled his ears.

Wynne was leaning against the wall in front of the elf, watching her just as intently as Morrigan herself. Lucy looked once again between them, her eyes eerily serene.

"I'm alive." She stated blandly and Morrigan released the breath she had not known she had been holding.

Directing her attention to Wynne, she smirked, "The Spirit sends its regards, my friend."

Wynne smiled, her tired eyes creasing, and nodded.

Between them, Morrigan and Wynne spent the evening explaining what had happened to the insistent Warden; with her familiar cheeky smile she claimed her curiosity overcame her tiredness. From the moment she had moved into the Fade, to the group of warriors stealing her body from the procession bound for the Circle, to the moment they had realized where her soul had hidden, they provided her with in depth detail.

Eventually, Morrigan watched the Warden struggle to keep her eyes open and cut into Wynne's awe-filled platitudes, "Warden, a word of advice before you leave us for the dream world."

Lucy's eyelids snapped open and focused solely on Morrigan, the friendliness and – dare she say it? – love evident in the grey, untainted by anger or resentment, had her blurting, "You are not angered with me?"

A smile curved the Warden's lips, "That sounds more like a question a less like advice, my friend."

"Do not be smart." Morrigan snarled, vulnerability curling her lip.

"No, I am not angry with you, Morrigan. The ritual was a desperate last hope that only _might_ have worked. I cannot blame you for not conceiving, and against all odds it appears I have survived. No blood, no foul. Now please, I don't have many minutes left in me to stay awake, I value your advice."

Morrigan cast a casual glance at Wynne, watching the old woman purse her lips against spilling the truth; Morrigan continued before she could, "Very well. As far as all of Ferelden is concerned you are dead. They will mourn your death and continue on; the King especially will transition onto a human wife with ease."

Ignoring the Warden's pained wince, she continued, "Essentially, you are free. Not considering the taint in your blood, you are technically no longer a Warden, if you keep your powers muted, you could very well pass for a regular citizen in another country. You have a chance to be reborn."

Morrigan was supremely satisfied at the speculative sheen in the Warden's eyes; unexpectedly she heard Wynne add, "It is true, my dear. You could begin a whole new life, forget all that has happened here. You did not wish to be a living hero in the first place. You are free."

"Free." Lucy repeated.

"Free." Morrigan confirmed.

This was her contrition gift to the Warden, the simple suggestion that would set her free.

Wrapping the blanket more securely around herself, Lucy curled up on the floor beside Rough, burrowing her face into his muscular neck and murmuring, "Well, that is an idea, isn't it boy?"

Morrigan was sure Lucy did not stay awake long enough to hear the hounds whining agreement. Rising and setting the stew on the fire to busy her shaking hands, Morrigan waited only a few minutes to whisper to the elder mage, "I will be leaving tonight. I have already delayed too long and my debt to the Warden is paid."

"Morrigan-"

"Spare me your lecture, old woman. She will understand. I only ask that before you part with her, give her this."

She handed Wynne the mirror, the sole gift she had ever received. Though she was loathe to part with it, it was necessary.

"I will do as you ask." Wynne replied, laying the mirror atop the pillow on the bed.

Morrigan nodded once and set about packing her meagre belongings. Finishing far sooner than she had expected, she knelt beside Lucy, her hand hovering hesitantly above the dark hair. Fully aware that Wynne watched, she let her hand drop and tenderly – tenderly! – brushed a lock that had fallen across the Warden's forehead.

"Live, Warden." She whispered fiercer than she had intended, consequently gentling her next words, "Escape this place and live, for all of our sakes. You are, and will forever remain, my _friend_. I dare say my only friend. I, well, I would say something, if it were not something I have sworn to never admit. Be well, Lucy Surana."

She lifted her hand, turned to rise and was halted by the surprisingly strong grip on her wrist. Warily meeting Lucy's sleepy grey gaze, she felt a lump rise in her throat at the croaky reply, "I know, your admission is unneeded. Be well, Morrigan. May we meet again, whether in this life or the next."

Lucy released her and fell easily back into slumber. Swallowing the infernal emotion in her throat, she rose, bid a curt farewell to Wynne and gathered her staff and pack. The night was cool and crisp, spring was well underway and a perfect time for travelling. She let her body flow into that of a silvered fox and padded away from the hut on silent feet.


End file.
